


Damaged Goods

by gunpowderandsunshine



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: 906, Gen, Ian’s POV, M/M, just a little drabble
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-18
Updated: 2018-10-18
Packaged: 2019-08-03 23:17:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16335116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gunpowderandsunshine/pseuds/gunpowderandsunshine
Summary: so I jumped on the endgame/prison bandwagon. kinda.





	Damaged Goods

**Author's Note:**

> so I jumped on the endgame/prison bandwagon. kinda.

Ian knows he isn’t exactly a catch. Maybe he was once but he’s burned through every ambition he ever had and he’s pretty much just a shell of who he used to be these days.

He’s still pretty though, even with the jet black hair that makes him look even paler than usual. He knows that and has never been afraid to use it to his advantage. Won't be afraid to use it now if he thinks it'll do him any good.

But that’s all just window dressing.

Scratch the surface and he’s nothing but damaged goods.

His head is all fucked up, his heart hasn't been right since the Mexican border.

He should've ran. Back then. Now. Either or.

He's been practicing his look in the mirror. Hard. Cold. Intimidating. It's a look he knows well, saw often on the face of the man he still loves more than anyone else in this world.

He knows he can't pull it off. Nine months in county jail is one thing. Two years in prison is a whole different ball game.

He tries so hard not to let his family see his fear. They don't need to deal with that shit.

And he doesn't need to give into it. Doesn't need to feed it. Can feel it underneath his skin, just lurking there. Waiting to break free, ready for him to panic. He can't give into that. Not back at the house waiting and wondering where Fiona was. Not now in this crowded truck filled with most of the people who love him either.

Can't let out that hysterical laughter. Choke it back. Hold it together. Shut it all down.

Damaged goods.

That's all he feels like now, saying goodbye, saying I love you. Knowing they'll try at first, his family. They’ll visit. And then they won't. Because that's the Gallagher way. Self involved. It's a character trait, a flaw in their DNA somewhere. They all care more about themselves than each other. He's not absolved from it, has been guilty of the same thing more times than he'd care to admit to.

Intake. He knows how that goes. Strip. Squat. Cough.

It’s a routine meant to humiliate you, make you feel less than human, it mostly does a good job. He’s not sure he could feel any lower than he does right now. It almost makes him long for those days when he didn’t feel anything at all. Almost. But not quite. He knows he has to guard his health more closely in here than he ever has before in his life or he might not survive.

Try to keep that hard look he practiced, through the halls, up the stairs. Ignore the cat calls, the jeers, the glares. Fresh meat. He doesn’t stand a chance.

He thinks he does okay keeping it together until he gets shown into his cell. Thirty-seven minutes down, only about a million and some more to go. Half that if he’s lucky. Good behavior. Overcrowding. Things that could work out in his favor.

He doesn’t even glance around, keeps his eyes and head forward, taking it all in from his peripheral. Four walls. Sink and toilet combo. Two bunks, the bottom one already claimed. Standard issue.

He can feel his eyes start to water as he sits his pile of meager belongings down on the top bunk and listens to the the door slide closed behind him. The mask falls from his face and he lets his head hang down, his shoulders droop. He just needs a minute to pull himself together.

He’s damaged goods and this all just became very real. This tiny ass cell, this ugly ass jumpsuit, this is his life for the foreseeable future and for one brief second he feels like he can’t breathe, he can’t do this. He can’t be here. He’ll lose what’s left of his goddamned mind.

He hears the door open and close again and he closes his eyes, shakes his head, wishes he had just a little bit longer to prepare himself, to get back in the game, but since when did life ever go the way he wanted it to? So he straightens his spine, stands to his full height and turns to face whatever fresh hell life is getting ready to hand him.


End file.
